


Burden

by WhisperingOrchard



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst and Romance, M/M, post re:connect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingOrchard/pseuds/WhisperingOrchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aoba comes to bear Noiz’s burden as a result of using Scrap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burden

**Author's Note:**

> My first DMMd fic, so I honestly have no idea how this is. All criticism is appreciated. Un-beta’d as of right now, so I apologize for any mistakes. I mostly just wrote this because I’ve had this idea for a while and it wouldn’t quit pestering me, the darned thing. I might expand more on this idea someday, but for the time being, have this melancholic mess of a oneshot.

6:51 a.m.

So reads the dim green glow of the display on his coil as it sits atop the bedside table. An inaudible groan threatens to spill out from his throat; he turns his head and releases it into the thick white satin of his pillowcase—the pillow remains swathed in the blackness of night and he adjusts his body by touch and familiarity alone. He hasn’t had any difficulty succumbing to sleep since returning to Germany with Aoba a month ago—until now, at least—and he honestly can’t say that he has missed the insomnia that was once brought on by being away from his companion. Raising a palm to his face, he rubs repeatedly at his crusted green eyes and peers sidelong at the snoozing bluenet lying peacefully at his hip.

“Nngh…” A tiny sound of slumber slips past Aoba’s parted lips, and Noiz cannot help but grimace at the twinge in his own chest as a distressed tone adheres itself to his boyfriend’s voice. Despite his present state of sleep, Aoba scoots nearer still and buries his face further down into the mattress; lithe fingers encircle and clench the sheets a few times before his body succumbs to relaxation once more.

Inhaling sharply, Noiz moves ever-nearer the older male and sits up, gaze unwavering as he fixates his attention on the other’s soft facial features—trailing up the contours of his jaw, the dips and knolls of his cheeks, the outward splay of azure lashes subtly veiling from view the golden fruits of his eyes. Those _eyes_ —those goddamn _eyes_ of his, goldenrod and hazel and every possible shade in between—how long had it been since Aoba last cast those eyes upon his face with anything _but_ affection? From their moments in Platinum Jail to the recent past, Noiz is almost certain that there has been little more than bliss and contentment alight in his gaze.

The thought causes another bitter welling in the core of his stomach; he gnashes his teeth and furrows his brows in a vain effort to will it down, scowling and recoiling a bit like a threatened carnivore. As if in response, the sour pang in his gut drifts upward, shooting skyward through his ribs, along his breastbone, to settle in his throat; a similar sensation soon brews beneath the portion of his forehead that is covered by choppy blond bangs. The frown on his face only deepens at the nagging sensation; if there is one sort of pain that he never wishes to feel again, it is this—this dull, hindering _throb_ that makes his heart convulse and his eyes sting. The pain of guilt.

He wants nothing more to do with it.

“… Noiz…?”

A familiar, groggy grumble resounds from the pillow by his thigh. In a brief moment of negligence, Noiz reaches across to gently swipe aside the feathery wisps of blue strewn this way and that across Aoba’s face. Mere seconds pass before realization passes over him, however, and much to his boyfriend’s apparent dismay, he retracts his fingers and places them awkwardly back in his lap. They haven’t spoken since their attempt at sex last night—this hardly seems appropriate. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care, but since this pertains mostly to Aoba, it would feel wrong to be too forward until things were sorted out.

With a sleepy sigh, Aoba’s hand rises up from his pillow and reaches across to lazily drape over Noiz’s knee. It inches toward the blond’s lap and latches suddenly onto his wrist, tugging at it with lazy fingers. “You can still touch me, you know.” A light blush rises in Aoba’s pale cheeks. “I-I mean, if you want.” As if to emphasize his point, he pulls Noiz’s hand towards his face again, leaving it to rest against his cheek.

The younger man’s expression softens faintly, though the dysphoria does not fade. He does not speak, does not flinch away, but rather settles his hand more comfortably on Aoba’s face, lightly tracing his fingertips along the exposed expanse of his cheek.  A smile, loving yet listless, slowly tugs at the corners of Aoba’s lips, a sight beheld tenderly by Noiz and still not enough to reassure him in this moment of uncertainty. His lips part in question.

“… Can you feel that?”

The fading gleam in Aoba’s stare answers the question on his behalf.

Idly, Noiz allows his fingers to drift, slipping from the other’s cheek to the curvature of his jaw; the prickly sensation that meets the younger’s digits draws a tiny smirk onto his face. “You have stubble.”

“Of course I do,” Aoba responds indignantly, a tiny pout forming on his lips as he gazes up at his lover with sleep-brimmed eyes; they go mostly unnoticed in the lightless interior of the bedroom. “I just don’t like letting it grow out…”

"Hmm."

"I still have more than you."

“… Shut up.”

This earns him a light, sleepy chuckle from Aoba; it reaches his ears in gentle echoes, faintly flicking against his eardrum in a pleasant sort of way, like a gentle spring gust in the wake of summer’s swelter. Far improved is this situation from the previous night—no, that’s not quite true; the _mood_ has improved, rather—there is no remedying their present _situation_ , at least to his knowledge. Even the prior cure has been disproven—as of this moment, he fears that there is nothing more that they can do.

“What time is it…?”

Noiz casts a quick glance at his coil. “Almost seven.”

He feels the mattress shift beside him as Aoba sits upright; the timbre of his voice softens, a bit hoarse from both exhaustion and from the verbal component of their fight last night.  “We have work soon…”

“Yeah.” Affirming the statement, Noiz takes a moment to recollect his thoughts before speaking once more, peering across the mattress as the light weight on the other end is removed; Aoba stands and steps over to the light switch, flipping it on with his index finger before reaching up to wipe a bit of rheum from the corner of his eye. Squinting, Noiz raises his arm to briefly shield the bright glow from above before letting his stare settle in on his boyfriend once more. “… Aoba, you don’t have to go.”

“I’m going.”

Noiz narrows his eyes a little, but makes no further motion to convince him. Instead, he rises from the bed and turns on his heel, tugging the sheets up to the headboard and tucking them under the lip of the mattress. A light shiver slinks down his body as a rush of cool air flits along his bare arms; looks like the weather has cooled down again.

“… Noiz?” A faint utterance floats past, barely perceptible above the low hum of the heater as it kicks on above their heads.  “Can you…”—a heavy swallow—“can you come help me?”

The blankets fall from Noiz’s grasp as he steps back to across the room at his lover.  “What?” His voice is curt, inquisitive, yet still his insides churn and his throat burns with a sour sort of sadness—his eyes catch glimpse of Aoba standing in the master bathroom.

The words catch in his chest at the sight; his fingers clench at his side, but he nods despite his chagrin and walks hesitantly over to the older man’s side. Caked onto Aoba’s face is a thick layer of shaving cream, smeared haphazardly across his jaw and trailing in foamy glops down the length of his throat. Noiz plucks the razor from his hand and sets it on the countertop, takes Aoba’s frothy chin in his fingers, and gently coaxes him into an abrupt kiss; Aoba’s lips part almost immediately and his tongue darts out to prod at Noiz’s mouth, a look of longing and languish glinting in his dull golden eyes in the sloppy exchange—they do not squeeze shut. It is quick, it is hungry, and as soon as it is over, they are reverted to their state of tedium.

Noiz sighs softly and spits a little bit of shaving cream from his mouth into the sink. “You’ll get used to it soon.” His voice quiets as he reaches for the blade a second time; he brings it up to slide the edge along the outer edge of Aoba’s jaw.  “It’s all about pressure—use the mirror.”

Aoba nods his head in acknowledgement and leans his face upward to ease the younger man in his task; the lump in Noiz’s throat does not subside as he nicks the pale skin beneath his fingers—one cut, thin but long, an accidental blemish beneath the thick coating of foam.

Aoba does not wince, does not notice, and does not so much as raise his brows until he spots the faint beading of blood in the mirror.

Noiz finishes trimming him and says nothing more on the subject.


End file.
